


Taliesin Goes to the Rugby

by CenozoicSynapsid



Category: Llyfr Taliesin | Book of Taliesin
Genre: Bad Poetry, Cymru am byth!, Gen, Rugby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 21:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CenozoicSynapsid/pseuds/CenozoicSynapsid
Summary: I have been a speckled snake on a hill,I have been a viper in the lake,I have been to the rugby,And I am going to the rugby.





	Taliesin Goes to the Rugby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wererogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wererogue/gifts).



> Scribal notes near the beginnings of these short poems indicate that in formal bardic competitions, each of them is worth no points whatsoever.

## A History of Taliesin

I have been a speckled snake on a hill,  
I have been a viper in the lake,  
I have been to the rugby,  
And I am going to the rugby.  
I have been an otter in Llyn Celyn,  
Hunted brown trout through the drowned chapel  
Where Tryweryn praised its first Maker.  
I have been at Aberfan, a miner,  
Mining for my son in the black mound.  
In the dead silence of the town mourning,  
You could not hear a bird nor a child.  
I have served Llywelyn, greatest of kings,  
I have seen the grave of Owain Glyndwr,  
I have worn the Welsh Not around my neck,  
And kept the old language in my heart.  
I do not vote Plaid Cymru,  
But the Six Nations are playing,  
And I will not be moderate,  
When George fights the Dragon.  
Let there be Five Nations when we finish.  
Leave the sixth crumpled on the field  
As Owain and Urien would leave them. 

## The Cauldrons of Taliesin

The small saucepan boiling on the fire,  
The large saucepan boiling on the floor,  
Wondrous their contents. Who can reveal them? 

The Virgin Mary is hurt; what lord shall avenge her?  
Saint David, a warrior, his garment outstanding,  
Fierce as the Black Cat of Ynys Mon. 

The Cat is at peace now; let God keep her  
To rise again on the Day of Judgment,  
And scratch again, three times harder.

Foolish men, arrogant without learning,  
Till you can tell what is in the small saucepan,  
You shall not taste from the large one.

## A Song of Praise

Right hand of the Welsh, you are worthy  
Of the bard’s song, of the foremost chair.  
Drink and rejoice at the feast,  
You who withstood nine men in the scrum,  
Fleet in the course, clothed in scarlet.  
Delight of the crowd, mighty in combat,  
What an outcry when you broke through!  
The Angles gnashing their teeth and shouting,  
Your wiles tripped one man, your speed another,  
Chiefest treasure of Cadwallon’s land.  
Let the English catch an eel with their teeth,  
A fox with their fingertips,  
A stag with a net of woven grass,  
They will still not catch Gareth Edwards,  
And Gareth Edwards sooner than you,  
Try-scoring hero, people’s champion.

And until I die  
In extreme old age,  
Let me never rejoice  
Unless Wales is winning.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't take this piece seriously at all, but I had fun writing it. (The central section is a parody of "Sosban Fach", which is often sung by rugby fans.) Rugby can be serious business, though. If you do not believe me, just watch the Welsh side sing their national anthem before the final match of the 2013 Six Nations: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AM4mIlYKG9s
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta reader and apologies to anyone whose culture or history I got wrong; the fault is all mine.


End file.
